Wulf and Dark
by anja-chan
Summary: Daisuke and Dark have an odd reuninion several years after the Black Wings is sealed, but all things are not as they seem. Many years ago, when the world still believed in older gods, there was a poet named Deor... and something darker called Wulf.
1. Chapter 1

**WULF AND DARK**

**I**

-DARK-

The boy opened his eyes, sleep clinging to his heavy lids. He stretched out an arm and yawned, disturbing the white rabbit formerly snuggled up in the crook of his elbow. The animal made a small _kyuu_ of annoyance, and tried to reassert its position.

"Ah, sorry, With," he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his scarlet eyes. He looked tired even though it was morning. "I never get enough sleep anymore," he said vaguely. It wasn't clear whether it was an apology or an accusation.

The pet suddenly perked up as if struck. He looked at his master with large, pensive eyes.

The youth winced. "Look, I said I was sorry. _You_ can go back to sleep if you want." He climbed out of bed, straightening his pyjamas, and stumbled to adjacent bathroom. The rabbit continued to watch silently, his eyes never leaving the boy's figure. An ear twitched hopefully.

"Aaaaah! Mom! Dark! Mom! _Dark!_"

The teenager stopped shouting abruptly and placed a hand on either side of the bathroom sink. He leaned in closer. His reflection shine back—eyes closed, long purple hair, and a serene expression on his-but-not-his face.

"Dark?" he questioned doubtfully.

The figure in question didn't respond or even mimic his actions like a normal reflection.

"Dark!" he shouted forcefully, hoping to elicit some sort of response.

His reflection continued to sleep. He paused, millions of thoughts careening through his head, blocking all locomotive actions. And then….

"Moooooooom!" he ran, thumping wildly down the stairs and bursting into the kitchen.

She turned, a hot mitt over one hand, a frying utensil in the other, and a homemade apron tied around her waist. "Hmmm? What is it, Dai?"

"Mom! Dark's back! I saw him in the mirror!" The boy continued to shout despite the three feet separating the two.

An old man set his tea mug back on the table with a heavy thud. "What's that you say? Dark? Impossible." His wizened face scrunched up into a careful, studied look of the younger redhead.

"Grandpa," the boy began, seizing upon the new target who seemed more convincible than the woman, "I woke up and looked in the mirror and saw Dark's reflection instead of me!" The teenager punctuated his last syllable by thrusting a palm over his chest.

"Nonsense, boy," the old man said. "Dark won't be seen again for at least fifteen years… twenty-five if you behave as you should." His tone made it clear that he wasn't convinced the boy had been behaving appropriately. "You should stay away from the blond girl—she's nothing but trouble, I say."

"Ugh, Grandpa! You don't get it at all!" the youth retorted, his frustration evident. He turned back towards the woman, "Mom, you believe me, right?"

She had already turned back to watch the hot stove. "Is that why you're still in your pyjamas? You must have been dreaming, dear."

"Argh! No one in this house listens to me anymore!" he fumed, whirling around dangerously to stomp directly into another figure. The newcomer's hands landed heavily on the teenager's shoulders.

"Whoa, there, Dai, what's the matter?"

"Leave me alone," the boy said vehemently, swiping the hands off him. "It's not like you'd understand."

He ran back up to his room, glanced at the rabbit, now in the middle of the floor with worried eyes gazing up at him. The boy strode to the bathroom, avoiding the animal's unspoken question, ostensibly to check the mirror again. He hadn't been dreaming, right?

"…Dark?" he tried, hesitantly, almost scared that it really was all a dream. He remained hopeful as he put himself in the path of the mirror's reflection. He peered into it cautiously.

The other face was still there. With eyes closed and a face slackened in peace, his reflection didn't respond. It looked almost unnaturally peaceful, but exactly as he remembered. Dark was as untouched by age as he was unfamiliarly untouched by emotion. No grin curved across his lips, no sparkle reflected in his closed eyes, and no teasing slant picked up the edges of his brows. Even his hair was somehow calm and unsettlingly motionless.

Daisuke had never felt more alone.

Confronted by the shell of his former other self, he was utterly still and silent for a moment. Something in him echoed the blankness of his reflection, and his mind fell slow and thick. He dimly recalled that Dark was somehow his own soul—he never really understood it in words—and the empty visage that faced him seemed so clear in its meaning. It had been welling up in him for days, weeks, months. This feeling of worthlessness and unimportance. And now, even the bit of Dark that was left inside him showed the blankness of his life now. Dark was still as death; an unmoving, lifeless thing. Was that what Daisuke's soul had been reduced to?

When had it all started to go so wrong?

His heart was empty. Self-pity trickled along between the rocks of his self-worthlessness. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. His reflection didn't seem to care.

_Unfair._

The only person who had ever understood him had gone so that only an empty face remained, reflecting nothing back at him. Dark had been his constant and almost uncomfortably close companion for a year, and then vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. To have his other half ripped from him like that could only leave him feeling empty for the rest of his life. Daisuke couldn't even see his own stupid face anymore and to top it all off, no one in his family even believed him.

_Unfair._

He had been trained as a thief since birth only to find out that everyone expected his life to culminate at the age of fourteen. How messed up was that? What was he supposed to do afterwards? Get married and have a kid? He had never been given a choice—he had never truly liked stealing. It was supposed to be wrong. Normal kids learned stuff like that from their normal parents. What kind of parents forced their children to be robbers?

_Unfair._

Oh, _wait._ His father had up and left for twelve years, so it had really only been his mother and grandfather who gave him mandatory life-threatening tasks. Because _that_ was normal! Putting the constant fear of death aside, they acted like it was okay for the man of the house to leave his two-year-old son to go venture off to find art for said son to steal. But there was no way that would take twelve years! What was worse than pretending like he had always been around to be Daisuke's dad was that no one ever told him what might have really happened. They just gave blank looks and said Dad had been investigating artworks. They treated Daisuke like he was ten years old and too young to understand that maybe his parents didn't always want to be together. The distance between father and son had only grown in the last three years.

_Unfair._

Everything in his life was going wrong. Nobody cared about him anymore. No one listened to him. Not his family, not his friends, not his teachers… not even this ridiculous portrait of Dark. Even his own damn bathroom mirror wouldn't do what he wanted! It refused to show Daisuke even his own face. Just Dark's.

_Unfair._

Ever since Dark had left, everything seemed pointless. Why had Daisuke's life been set up around being someone else? Maybe that was why no one cared about him anymore—he wasn't Dark. It was probably why Satoshi had left. And his mom had always liked Dark more—she'd wanted the _real_ Phantom Thief as a son since she had been in grade school! And now that Dark was gone—

_Unfair._

He clenched his teeth, but then his emotions suddenly couldn't be bottled up inside his body any longer. His anger burst forth in a torrent, rippling hotly through his blood.

"Argh! I hate you!" he yelled at his uncaring reflection. "This is all your fault! I can never be normal—it's all your fault, Dark! You, and Mom, and Grandpa, and Dad! I wouldn't be like this if it weren't for you! And where are you now to take responsibility? You're such a _jerk,_ Dark! Why the _hell_ did you leave? I hate you! I fucking hate you!"

He panted vengefully at the mirror, but the face remained unchanged. Daisuke only felt his rage grow, and could feel nothing but the wrath.

"Aaaaargh!" he screamed, squeezing his eyes shut and slamming a fist painfully into the sink counter. In a bizarre, masochistic way, it felt good. The pain, the anger—it was the most powerful thing he had at the moment. It was the _only_ thing he had in the resounding emptiness of his soul. He didn't want it to stop and vented his frustration more loudly. He punched the counter again and again and then even that wasn't enough anymore. The last few years came boiling to the surface.

He raised his eyes to the mirror, glaring at the unsuspecting face.

His fist followed.

Pain erupted white-hot from his hand as streaking lines cracked along the mirror, a spiderweb on fast-forward. Blood trickled from his knuckles, red smudges against the glass's epicenter. He slowly pulled his hand back, his hand throbbing in time to his heartbeat.

Daisuke heaved in air, shoulders shaking at the multiple miniature replicas of Dark's face in the distorted reflection.

His breath stopped.

Wickedly crimson eyes looked back at him from under purple hair, longer than Daisuke had remembered. A slow smile spread across those pale lips—but that expression had never shown itself before in either of them. It certainly wasn't Daisuke's face… but something about it didn't seem like Dark's either.

"You woke me," the reflection said softly, its eyes glittering a luminous scarlet. Daisuke couldn't move to even wet his lips. "You called me back from the prison… the bondage of the artwork… and I… like a moth to flame cannot resist… that call, that… burning wrath. Blood of my blood, we shall—"

The vision in the mirror's eyes grew wide in shock for a moment, then blinked, its red eyes returning to a reassuring, if confused, amethyst. The cruel smile softened slowly as if the face was remembering how to work correctly. "You're… Daisuke."

There was a long pause. The glassy face was impossible to read. Daisuke waited, his heart in his throat.

"It's been awhile… partner." Dark smiled and with the rush of familiarity, Daisuke's pent up frustration, fear, and anger began to dissipate like the receding tide.

-WULF-

The damp earth muffled the sounds of the warriors' footfalls, leaving only the deeper patters as they crossed the moor. The sun was falling slowly behind the highlands, casting long shadows through the sifting grasses and grotesque shrubs. They paused in a copse of trees, huddling in a makeshift circle with hurried looks at a small troop of men that were marching single-file along the other edge of the open grassland.

"_Ellen sceal on eorle,_" one man whispered among his fellows. Grim nods and hardset eyes surrounded him. 'A warrior must be valiant,' they all seemed to agree.

The man who had spoken, shook his bearded face, gritting his teeth together into a grizzly smile. The fur that lined his tunic rippled in the wind and gave him a beastly visage, almost like he was a monster that had crawled out from the among fens and brackish waters. He took a deep breath, stretching the livid scar that still festered on his cheek. The others watched him, waiting for some kind of signal.

"_Wryd byth swithost!_" the man said quickly, rising to his feet with a wordless battlecry. His sword and battered shield pierced the darkening skies as a cold wind carried his words far from the group. A dying gasp of sunlight struck the pocked, yet polished blade, glinting a dull red as if it anticipated biting into its foes. The handful of warriors followed suit, throwing their arms and voices to the air.

'Fate is the mightiest.'

-WULF-

Deor surveyed the battle from a hillock a safe distance away. Certainly he was no stranger to battle, but he now earned his keep through his clever verses and memory of the epic stories of his people. Now at work for the Heodening king, the minstrel was not inclined to risk his life in battle—especially one that didn't concern him.

He sighed, watching the two groups shout and charge. Both sides' approaches were sloppy and too hasty. While not the greatest fighter, Deor was still alive after many years and could predict an unfortunate circumstance before he was stuck in one. The only saving grace for the warriors seemed to be that the other side was equally abysmal in their skills.

Why had he decided to travel again? Oh, yes, in the hopes of seeing something truly song-worthy. Another man had appeared at King Heoden's hall and claimed to be the best poet in the land. At first, the king had barely acknowledged the man, but Heorrenda as the man was known, was now Deor's rival.

The warriors met, and the clanging of iron swords and helms mixed into the general cacophony of men's voices. Since the skirmish wasn't very interesting, Deor turned his poetic mind to the scenery around him. Maybe he should work on a descriptive lyric? A riddle? Maybe he should just rehearse that new poem from across the sea about Beo—

A sudden rustle in a wild tangle of shrubs behind him made him whirl around, pulling his knife into his hand.

A sleek, black beast padded out of the bramble, its breath a slow, steady pant. The wolf was huge, its forelegs massive and hindquarters powerful. Wind ruffled its fur, the dark coat glinting with blood-hues masking the rippling muscles beneath it. Deor's breath froze in his throat and his blue eyes locked onto the beast.

The wind died suddenly and Deor could hear his own heart pumping steadily throughout his body. He was not normally superstitious but _this,_ this was different. He swallowed, settling his weight into a fighting stance, his arms wide.

The wolf's eyes shone a frightening crimson red. It stopped only a few paces from where Deor stood ready. It watched him without fear or concern, as if the strong and armed man was too feeble for its time. And then, it turned, ignoring Deor in favor of the far off battle where men were howling to the clang of swords and shields.

Deor felt a shudder ripple through his body, but he held his stance. The beast continued to ignore him, behaving in a manner that animals should not. Something else seemed to hold sway over the land that was slowly dying into night.

The wolf looked over its shoulder and back towards Deor. The man tensed, but the wolf didn't do anything more than open its mouth into a sharply fanged grin, its husky body relaxed. It knew Deor was incapable of doing any harm, and the thought irked the man. He took a step forward, his knife still ready. His blood pounded hotly in his ears. If it was a demonic animal, all the more reason he should kill it… and present its head to Heoden. Surely, killing such an animal was beyond Heorrenda.

The wolf jerked its attention back to the fight below, the lines that ran along its dark body suddenly alert and tensed for action. It paid no mind to Deor's advance, all its focus on the fighting men. The quick change made Deor stop abruptly, and focus his attention on the field as well. His knife hung useless at his side as he watched a hawk swoop down, circling the bloody field from a closer level. The warbird screamed heartily, and with a sickening lurch to Deor's stomach, the wolf gave a short answering howl. This was no ordinary day, and he had somehow been chosen as witness. These beasts of war must be representatives of some dark gods, and Deor was powerless. He replaced the knife in his belt, knowing that if death came for him there was nothing he could do. He stepped forward again, getting a better view.

Man and beast stood side by side, scrutinizing the skirmish. There were only a dozen or so men involved, but that was plenty. Two had already fallen, one still and quiet, the other clutching the gaping wound that showed slivers of grey intestines. His tortured groans competed with the ringing swords of the still-fighting men, all sound echoing around the moor.

The hawk cried out again, and the wolf threw back its head in a deep howl. The sound resonated in the marrow of Deor's bones, echoing around and around in his head. Without any warning, the black wolf lunged forward off the hillock and raced down towards the battle below, disappearing into a patch of trees and darkness. Deor felt his body sag with relief, but even as he closed his eyes in appreciation, a tingle ran up his spine. The encounter wasn't over; there had been no sense of closure. He opened his eyes and sought out the battlefield again. The hawk had disappeared, and the men were hacking at each other brutally, but with little effect. A feeling of uneasiness welled up in the pit of Deor's stomach.

With a sudden gust, the wind tore at Deor's heavy fur cloak as the chill wracked his body with an icy infusion of fear. The air felt dense and electric as if before a lightning storm, even though the clouds that hovered in the sky above were harmless. The sun threw fell below the cloud line, washing the entire scene a sharp contrast of red-orange and black. The grass shivered at the dying sunlight's touch, and even the warriors below seemed to finally sense something was amiss.

_It's coming_, Deor thought, half-excited and half-terrified.

A wolf howled.

A hawk screamed.

The figure appeared above the mêlée, the air around it humming and dark. Ethereal, beautiful, and terrible with the glory of war, its ash-grey wings held the body aloft. It was larger than life, and one hand firmly gripped the most valuable-looking of treasure-swords. The creature opened its perfect mouth, lips parted exquisitely for a silent second, before pouring forth an otherwordly scream, a tormented mix of a wolf's sorrowful howl and a hawk's piercing cry, but on a scale that penetrated every nerve of Deor's being. He was transfixed by it beauty, the moment reverberating and infusing itself into his soul.

"_Waelcurie!_" The men cried out in terror, naming the fearsome creature above them. They clambered through the mud, tripping over each other and squealing like stuck pigs in their frantic attempts at escape. Deor's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide with wonder.

The valkyrie descended, its eyes bright and dark at once, reflecting the inner darkness like twin suns. Its jeweled swords caught the last rays of the setting sun before it caught its first victim. The two fallen men were first, unable to run or even scream well, and then the valkyrie beat its wings once, twice, and overcame the fleeing soldiers. The sword cut through them like water, and they fell to the ground silent. They were dead before the earth caressed their grimy faces.

The valkyrie finished and paused, perfectly still. Its long hair was untroubled by the cold winds that swept the moor grasses. It turned, slowly, to face the poet and even at that distance, Deor knew the creature was looking only at him. His breath stopped, his mind froze, and he was caught so easily. He didn't scream, he didn't run, he didn't even blink. It wasn't fear that made Deor so still, but rapture. Pure, sheer euphoria. Slowly, the valkyrie raised its free hand to point at its disciple. No expression showed on its smooth, pale face. Its mouth opened again, the strange and dreadful voice forming itself into words.

"_Is seo forthgesceaft digol and dyrne."_

Deor felt himself lurch as if struck. But it was from within! He looked down his arms patting his chest and stomach as if searching for a grievous wound, but he was wholly intact. If anything, he realized, he felt as if he was _more_ complete than he had been before, if that were possible. A great warmth settled into his chest, stretching and seeping into his extremities. Was this his soul? His _hael_? He looked back up towards the sky, but the valkyrie had gone. Its parting words echoed ominously against the poet's mind, as he stared out over the moor, now dark with night.

'What is ordained to come is dark and secret.'

-WULF-

The question now was how to spread the word. If he wanted the tale of the valkyrie to be told across the land, it needed to be sung. The cadence and alliteration would stick to the minds of his listeners like tar, never letting go of the imagination.

He was back at his own holdings, a modest cottage surrounded by a bit of farmable land. It was close to Heoden's robust mead-hall, but Deor had not yet entered through the iron doors and spoken with the lord. He needed time to process what had happened, and to craft the verses that would outlast every other.

For Deor was sure the song of the valkyrie was his destiny. His chest still felt the tremor of brilliance that the valkyrie had imbued within him, into his spirit, his very soul. The only way Deor could understand what the creature had done was that his life-force—his _hael_—had been altered and given greater breadth. The swelling force propelled him to his poetry, so that all he could think of was echoing verses and the swaying rhythm.

Deor was powerful. He could feel it, like lightning beneath his skin, itching to be released.

Suddenly, Deor grabbed his cloak and exited his house. Marching with ever-quickening steps, he turned down the narrow, muddy path that would take him to Heoden. Without even a thought for what he would perform, Deor knew he _would_ perform—he was driven to it. Giddiness welled up through his system and he forced himself not to run like a small child.

Heorrenda would fall to him. With the power that the valkyrie had given him, Deor would surely triumph.

It was fate, and all knew fate determined all.

Above him, a hunting hawk cried out, and Deor smiled, taking inspiration where he found it. His fate would demand no less.

-WULF-

**Historical notes:**

The men and valkyrie are speaking Old English, which was the main language spoken by Anglo-Saxons in what is now Great Britain between roughly 450 and 1100. Obviously, I have given translations for everything, but I hope it's not too distracting.

Deor makes a reference to rehearsing "that new poem from across the sea about Beo—" before the wolf interrupts him. Of course, Deor is referencing Beowulf, one of the oldest and longest pieces of Old English poetry that has survived into modern times. Beowulf is actually a Scandinavian hero, thought to have lived in Sweden and Denmark. (I recommend the Seamus Heaney translation.)

Deor himself is a (likely fictional) character from the Old English poem, "Deor." The poet makes numerous references to great heroes/heroines and then relates his own misfortune with the Heodenings in comparison. For a link to the poem: www. anglo-saxons. net /hwaet/?do=get&type=text&id=Deor (take out the spaces)

**Author Notes:**

I hope everyone has realized by now that not only is this fanfiction based off DNAngel, but that throughout the text, I will also be drawing from other literature. LOTS of other literature. You may consider it a crossover between DNAngel and Old English poetry for now. Granted, that will change as we take a romp through the literary canon and art movements with Wulf and Dark.

~anja-chan


	2. Chapter 2

**WULF AND DARK**

**II**

-DARK-

"You should fix your hand." Dark's rich voice vaguely annoyed, but Daisuke was too excited and well beyond listening to what his other self actually had to say.

"How are you back?"

"You're still bleeding," Dark returned, his voice a little more impatient than before.

"_I_ still can't believe you're back! This is so—"

"Daisuke!" the reflection interrupted, "Get a bandage already! What on earth happened to your common sense?"

"Tell me why you're here!"

There was a pause. Daisuke's shining eyes were fixed on Dark's glittering ones.

"…Fix your hand." There was a slow force behind the words.

Daisuke's voice came out in a low, challenging whine. "Dar—"

"And _then_ I'll explain."

"It doesn't hurt," Daisuke retorted impatiently, ignoring the throbbing to pretend it was true.

Dark narrowed his eyes suddenly and dangerously. "Fuck you, Daisuke Niwa. We share a body. I know it hurts."

Daisuke's mouth dropped open. Dark had never used profanity before. The shock value was enough to make Daisuke turn on the faucet and open a drawer for bandages. He stuck his right hand under the cool water and winced as the force of the water hit it, before grabbing a box of bandages with his left.

When he glanced back up, a few dozen Darks were smirking at him through the shattered glass. Daisuke frowned back sullenly. "You swore."

Dark rolled his eyes. The broken reflection multiplied the effect like a synchronized team. "Can't you handle it? You're how old now?"

"Seventeen." Daisuke removed his hand from the water and patted it dry quickly before placing a bandage over his split knuckles.

"Then your mouth must be just as foul. And your manners worse."

"I can't believe you're judging me before you've even seen me do anything!" Daisuke retorted. "You're just going to assume things like everyone else, aren't you."

"Daisuke." Dark's tone was dangerously level with a hint of sinister pleasure. "I came to as you were punching a mirror. I drew my conclusions from that and past experiences."

Daisuke opened his mouth as if to argue, but then thought better of it. He looked sideways, avoiding eye contact with all the mini-Darks staring stonily at him. Something about Dark's manner seemed different—almost like he couldn't be contained within the mirror. The way the thief had first acted when he had awoken was too fresh in Daisuke's mind and the little hairs on the back of his neck wouldn't lie flat. "Why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be in the Black Wings or something?"

He glanced back just in time to see a shadow shiver through Dark's expression. The smile that remained on his face seemed hollow and then faded into something more serious. His words turned inward to a place where even Daisuke wasn't allowed, even while his eyes studied Daisuke's face carefully. "Angry enough to…." But he trailed off before his thought was finished, and his expression grew shadily thoughtful. There was a slight pause. "Well, my would-be tamer and blossoming artist, I shall tell you something interesting. If you're capable of such wrath, you should be prepared for the consequences."

Something about Dark's voice seemed off, and Daisuke swallowed uncomfortably. It was too low, too slow, too… dark. With a slight drop to his stomach, Daisuke realized the speech reminded him of the white angel, Krad. Fear pooled into his throat, making it a little more difficult to breath. Something was off. He could feel it.

But, this _was_ Dark. …Right? And if that were true, there shouldn't be any reason to be afraid of his old partner. His friend. His other self. And how could anyone besides the Phantom Thief share Daisuke's body?

"…Dark?"

"As I was saying, there are consequences for holding enough rage with an intent to inflict harm. One is that you call up something that reflects those intentions better than that mirror before you." The voice was almost cruel in its consistency. The reflections began to look like a small army, eyes shifting across the light spectrum towards a lower frequency. Lower… darker… redder.

"…Dark, you're not really making any sense…." Fear choked back any other reply as Daisuke's heart began pounding. He desperately wanted Dark's words to be a joke, even though—or perhaps precisely _because_—he didn't understand them. He felt drained already, exhaustion prodding the back of his skull. This had to be some kind of nightmare—his morning was too weird and awful for it to be anything else.

"And the darkness that you call up is me."

"That's just a pun," Daisuke said weakly. "Stop it, Dark."

"But Daisuke, it can't really be a pun, because I'm not really Dark…" Dark's mouth said, his red eyes gleaming like a hungry beast's.

"I am Wulf."

-WULF-

"Well then, friend Deor, give us your song as you are so eager to bring us cheer after your travels!" Heoden gestured affably to the straw-strewn area alongside the dining tables and benches. The king was not very old, but his hair and long beard were grey and streaked with white. His eyes crinkled at the corners, suggesting that he may smile at times despite the stern lines etched deeply around his mouth. The benches around him were full of warriors, perhaps twenty in all, their swords, helms, and shields all resting courteously near the doors. Weapons were not allowed inside—there was no need to defend against friends gathered here in good spirits.

Dispersed neatly among the warriors were the women and children. The older girls kept rushing back and forth with cups of drink and dishes of meat to their fathers and brothers, while the married women faithfully tended their husbands. Out another door, Deor saw a young boy and girl tending to the fire spit outside, while a pretty maiden sliced off the rich boar meat as it cooked. The girl alone was enough to make him hungry, but Deor's mouth watered as he saw the meat being deposited onto waiting plates. As soon as his task was done, he knew he would be getting one of the best cuts and maybe a secluded evening with a woman.

Turning his attention back to Heoden, Deor gave the older man his heartfelt thanks and stepped among the bits of straw covering the earthen floor. His eyes found Heorrenda's for a moment and he bit back a nasty smile. Let the other poet find his own meager song. Deor had the _hael_ of a valkyrie within him and the power of his words could never be matched.

"Ring-giver and friends of the hall, I would put a challenge to the young Heorrenda, my rival in song," Deor began courteously. Several men stamped their ale mugs down on the heavy tables, and raised their voices in good faith. A contest of any sort was always good fun, whether it be feats of strength or of song. " I propose that both Heorrenda and I sing to all in company and then our lord—" and here he gestured to the august Heoden "—will say to the one whose song he likes best that that man is the winner."

Heoden smiled at the many faces gathered in his hall, raising his arms to quiet down the raucous din. He turned to the younger poet. "And what say you, Heorrenda, to this challenge?"

"I accept." His clear, melodic voice echoed off the sturdy walls before the crowd began to cheer again. Deor noticed at least one blushing maiden offer Heorrenda a shy smile.

"Please, as you are sincerely my _elder_, Deor," Heorrenda began and a few men laughed good-naturedly at Heorrenda's emphasis, "I insist that you go first."

"I never fear making the first strike," Deor replied easily, bringing a huzzah from the benches.

He stepped forward towards the king and a hush fell over the crowd of listeners.

"_Hwaet_.

A hunting hawk hovers above

Eagle-gold eyes eagerly await the fray;

watching the war-strong and waiting for the fallen.

Bright eyes belie the working wit, wild

For the slaughter swift; he soars above the field.

The blood beast of battles, he brings out the brave

Or derives despair and deals the strongest man

His piercing poison-song: half the twin cry of the valkyrie."

Deor could feel his body grow light, yet full, as if he were glowing. He could feel it—the burning fire of the valkyrie's spirit—pouring out through his song. Even if he had wanted to, Deor was dimly aware that he couldn't stop. Something strange was happening so that the words seemed to pull themselves from his throat, uncontainable and springing to a life of their own. And yet he continued, the perfect image of his imagination springing forth into waiting words.

"Cruel like claws, the fearsome talons plunge

grasping the gasping for life-blood and landing

amidst the arrow meadow. Stately in procession

like his kingly colors, the hunting hawk is

gold and copper coinage cut through by woody

Russets and bronzed by finely-formed feathers.

Sunlight streams straight through his plumes.

With wind-catching wings wide, even the wolf cannot capture

The high-flying hunter: he serves his master."

With Deor's last breath of song, the sensation that something unknown had left him swept over him and his body recoiled from the expelling. It was like coming out of a trance and feeling like he had missed something important during his dreaming. But there was no time for him to dwell on the moment because as the lingering notes of his poem faded, a hunting hawk's piercing cry tore through the rafters. The audience gave a startled jump, eyes wildly searching for the source of the sound. A few superstitious shouts echoed around the room before the men assembled realized it was the king's own bird. Like Deor's song had reminded them, the raptor had a distinctive colored pattern of feathers. Hearty laughs and cheers followed as the hawk circled once around the room before alighting on Deor's now-uplifted arm.

The hall was mightily impressed by Deor's words and the ensuing display of luck. Whispers of how Deor must be favored by the gods circulated among the awed men. If only they knew how favored, Deor thought smugly. Only Heorrenda did not have a smile on his face as he approached the ring-giving king.

Heoden was a shrewd man, however, and waved the grim-set poet away. "Do not make such a face, my dear Heorrenda. It will be difficult to win the contest when you are the only sour face among so many revelers. Perhaps it is best if you wait until tomorrow to treat us with your song."

Deor watched with a slight smirk as the younger poet's hand balled into a fist. But beginning a story with anger always made for a poor poem. The hawk flexed his talons on Deor's wrist and shuffled an inch up his arm. Forgetting Heorrenda for a moment, Deor studied the bird.

It was perfectly the image Deor had described—but of course, he thought, since it was the most familiar animal of its kind to him. In his mind, he had imagined this very hawk as he sang, and the remembrance of the cry he had heard before entering the hall. Deor decided it had been the valkyrie's power that had called the hawk to his arm for a finale. He had been chosen to perform such feats and the natural world worked in harmony with him. Pride flooded his system in a hot rush. His poetry would be recognized and his name would continue on down through history. A legacy! He would become immortal in his words and others would write songs about _him._ He glanced back to the silent sentinel on his arm. The bird's eyes shone with an instinctive intelligence, reflecting Deor's face in their gold-mirrored surface.

This was his destiny. Fate had indeed been kind to him.

"Deor! Come join us at the table!" hailed one of the multitude, a heavy beard covering his face. "You'll get the victory even if Heorrenda does will up his courage to do battle with you."

Deor smiled, his gaze leaving the hawk's penetrating stare and feeling victorious. "I shall in a moment, Calhoun. Let me first take care of this little beast."

"Yes, yes, and in the meantime, you'll have a pint waiting for you!" Calhoun returned vigorously. A huzzah arose from the men seated closest to the exchange.

Deor left the hall with a raise of his free arm, the hawk riding patiently on the other. It didn't stir even without the customary hood. How the animal had rid itself of its ornament, Deor didn't know, but since the whole occurrence was undoubtedly a supernatural one, he felt that it didn't need an explanation.

The stable was a freestanding building a short ways from the hall and almost as impressive, for the Heodenings were a rich people covering many other farms that paid tribute to the main hall. It boasted twenty horses, eight couple hounds, and three hawks within its boundaries. The single steer and accompanying cows possessed an adjacent cowshed where the women could tie the animals for milking. Pasture in the spring and summer months were plentiful and the animals were given free access during daylight hours. Deor entered the building without hesitation even though his eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness inside. He knew the layout of the barn well enough to find his way with little light. He entered the aviary, and paused.

Deor blinked, willing his eyes to warm to the darkness faster. Surely, he had seen wrong in the darkness….

But no, he could see fully well, and there were already three hooded hawks inside. The one on his arm made four.

A cold shiver passed over Deor. From where had this one appeared?

The answer was obvious to his perception of the events, yet for Deor to acknowledge it was almost blasphemous. That he could _create_ a hawk merely by singing about it? The power was wildly intoxicating and hard to believe. Only the gods should be able to do that. Deor couldn't have dreamed of it himself—except the proof had its talons firmly around his forearm.

A laugh crept to his lips. What else was there to do? The whole situation was too absurd. An incredulous chuckle escaped from his mouth, and he shook his head unbelieving. The bird ruffled its feathers in response and looked questioningly at his master. He seemed to want instruction. Deor exhaled in a puff of air, a smile left lingering on his face. What else _was_ there to do?The valkyrie had given him a power beyond his imagination. Whatever Deor wanted, he could have. All he needed to do was sing for it and it would appear when the words were complete.

"Rest here, _Hafoc_," he said gently to his new-born creation. He lifted his arm towards the nearest perch and the hawk complied, taking a few shuffling steps and spreading his wings. It swiveled and watched Deor retreat to the door.

"Tomorrow, we shall go hunting," he said, not sure why he was speaking to a hawk, but feeling as if it were appropriate. After all, it wasn't _truly_ a hawk. Surely, surely, it must have part of the valkyrie's spirit in it.

He knew what his next song would be. If Deor had thought his story would be sung for many generations before, his influence would know no bounds now that he realized his full potential. The Heodenings would be forever remembered through Deor.

His heart full of satisfaction and his mind brimming with what was to come, Deor returned to the hall. His friends were waiting, after all.

-WULF-

Early the next morning while a majority of the revelers were sleeping off their drink, Deor took the worn path to the barn. He had barely slept for his excitement, and it was the same adrenaline that kept him from feeling tired now.

"Hafoc?" he whispered into the darkness. There was a flutter of wings as several of the birds rustled along perches, but only one short, low cry. A dark shape hovered in front of him and Deor obliged by putting out his arm. How easy it was to control this small being!

He left the building, venturing into the morning mist. The sun had risen not long before so the diffused light seemed to spread from all directions. Deor frowned. If the sun didn't burn through the clouds, Hafoc would have difficulty hunting.

It would be best to walk towards the top of the nearest hill, for the higher up he was, the sooner the fog would clear away. Deor stepped lightly up the trail, carrying the silent hawk with him.

Just as he was beginning to despair that he would have to wait another hour for the mist to dissipate, he broke through the top layer and found the sky. It was cool and crisp, without a cloud in the sky-blue field above him. Below the man and bird, white sheets sat in the low-lying fields, the fog like snow.

It was beautiful, but the hunting wouldn't be good yet.

"Hafoc," he said, turning to the sun-glinting feathers, "Return to me when the fog has parted."

The hawk gave a piercing cry in assent, and flapped powerful wings once, twice to leave Deor's arm. A few more beats and Hafoc was soaring aloft, his enjoyment clear in the flight. Deor watched, amazed. Spoken commands that were utterly understood by a bird! Why, he could make a whole flock of them to control if he wanted. Or another to serve a close friend—of course, only for people he respected for their good judgment. Even a fool would know that this kind of power in the wrong hands would be disastrous.

Hafoc wheeled above, circling higher and higher with the rising air. To Deor's eyes, he was barely more than a glint of dark gold. With a god's pride in his creation, Deor felt satisfied and in a certain kind of harmony with the earth. Even though his feet were firmly planted on the ground, it was as if his soul was flying with Hafoc as he spiraled higher and higher.

Suddenly, the bright speck dropped like a loosed arrow. The plummet was terrifying in its speed, awesome to behold. Deor could only watch in fascination, wondering when Hafoc would pull out of his spectacular dive. Surely it would be soon—

Hafoc dropped straight through the cloud bank like a swimmer entering the sea. With the hawk out of sight and so near the ground, apprehension filled Deor. He strained his eyes along the whiteness, but there was nothing for him to see except the graying expanse.

"Hafoc?" he whispered, unsure whether to call much louder. For if he did, and got no response… what sort of ill omen was that? That his first creation would so quickly leave him.

Deor swallowed. A growing sense of dread crept into his senses. He had been arrogant. He obviously still had more to learn—after all, Deor wasn't really a god. Just playing as one. And such a thing should bring serious consequences. He wet his lips, his mouth dry.

Just when Deor was about to give up all hope, a triumphant shriek filled the air, and Hafoc rose out of the mist. Something flopped limply in his talons as he beat his way back towards Deor.

The poet let out an exultant cry and rushed a few steps closer to the incoming hawk. He felt foolish for doubting himself and his Hafoc. Hadn't the valkyrie given him this power? If not to use it, then why would it have been given?

Deor would have thought himself arrogant if he didn't have the obvious means to back up his pride. He would be a great and powerful man only because he had the strength to prove it. He stroked Hafoc's silky feathers and murmured platitudes to it. What a fine animal, so swift, so smart….

The small hare that Hafoc had caught was cleanly dead—a broken spine, likely from the impact with strong talons and virtually no blood spilt. Deor plucked the warm dead thing from Hafoc and then smiled generously.

"The first spoils belong to you, Hafoc," he stated, "for a job well done." Deor held the hare out in front of the wickedly curved beak. A quick snapping motion brought the hare into the hawk's mouth and Deor watched, fascinated as Hafoc alighted to the ground and began tearing ferociously at the animal's hide and innards.

When Hafoc had finished, Deor held his arm out again, ready to return to the Heodening hall.

-WULF-

Deor eyed Heorrenda impatiently. The boy was trying too hard, which only made the effort obvious and the effect that of an unschooled screamer. It was distasteful all the more because it was the continuation of the contest in which Deor had summoned the hawk. As if _any_ poem could compare to the Hafocleoth, the hawk song.

Tuning out, Deor tried not to yawn and made eye contact with Calhoun. The man seemed to sympathize with Deor's feelings by rolling his eyes at Heorrenda's attempts.

The poem thankfully came to a close and people clapped and thunked their mugs politely. Heoden gave his thanks to Heorrenda, who seemed pleased with his effort and shot a smug look at Deor. The older poet blinked, confused at the quick glance, but he barely had time to consider the occurrence before Heoden began speaking. The benches hushed in response.

"My kinsman and friends, we have now heard both sides to this contest. I have been greatly pleased by both my friends, Deor and Heorrenda, and thus the decision is difficult. To continue the joviality of all gathered and to make a better choice, I will ask both poets to give us another song. What say you, Deor? Heorrenda has already told me of his willingness to give as many songs as necessary for my peace of mind."

Deor was slightly incensed—after all, wasn't the outcome obvious from the start? But a careful look at his beloved king, and Deor realized it was a tactful maneuver to keep the young and hot-blooded Heorrenda from mischief and anger for the moment. With just one song, Heorrenda could say it wasn't fair, as Deor had proposed the challenge and could have been practicing longer. This way, Heorrenda had also had a head start on Deor, who was now caught unawares.

Deor let a smile return to his face. "Of course, my king. I would happily accept any challenge."

It wasn't as if he would lose any contests now that he had such a gift. He felt his smile grow into a self-satisfied smirk.

Heorrenda was watching him closely. "Well, Deor, as you are distinctly my senior, you may have the choice of going first again. Are you prepared? Or does your elderly mind need a few moments of rest?"

Deor turned just his head and let his words float back to Heorrenda carelessly. "I am always prepared to best you, Heorrenda. I hope you can suffer another defeat more easily than the first."

The poet stepped to the center of the hall and the room quieted instantly. He could tell all were listening on the edge of their seats, waiting for another sign from god, another miracle. Deor took a deep breath, feeling the _hael_ spreading through his fingertips and zipping through his body like a sea-swept wind. He would give them what they wanted.

"_Hweat!_" Deor began, calling attention to himself and then letting himself plunge under and into the _hael _words that were clawing to get out.

"Seeking shadows and sliding in the air,

The wolf-father's whelp, the waelcurie is born.

What wondrous beauty belies cunning cleverness?"

The outside world was beyond Deor now, and although his green eyes were open, they registered nothing. The music of his words enveloped him completely. Dimly, Deor knew he was merely a vessel for something greater—but even if he had the ability to stop himself, he wouldn't have. Glory was waiting. He continued, the memory of the valkyrie floating before him like a phantom, dark and secret. He remembered and so he told.

"With hair dark and dire danger lurks in his wolfen ways,

Lying with lordly liberty until he descends

Upon those underneath who are unfulfilled by life."

The _hael_ was pouring out of him again like it had with Hafoc, rushing past his open mouth like the current of a river. The words were springing all around him, caressing him and then moving before him in some kind of ecstatic dance. It seemed as if the world faded in and out of focus, sound coming and going like the sense of a crowded room ebbing and flowing with voices. The only thing that stayed constant in his mind was the sensations of the valkyrie—it consumed him.

"Forever bound to fate his freedom is lost

To human-kind's honor, anger, and revenge

On the site of slaughter. In silence he takes us

To pass the portal, the path of the dead,

With cursed cries he crosses the boundary…."

A fearsome echo reverberated across the hall, mixing the sounds of a hawk's cry and a wolf's howl.

"…Between birth and burial, careful with

Scarlet eyes to see the worthiness

In the hearts of humans hungry for their souls.

Darkened deathly wings…."

People were screaming in terror, overcoming the trance that Deor had fallen under. It took him only a moment to register what was happening; after all, it was what he had wanted.

Shadows glistened and curled before him, and for a moment, Deor could see they were the words he had spoken: there was 'black…' and there was 'wings….' Then they all disappeared into a strange swirling mass. It was incredible, but he was suddenly aware he was the only one who believed so. Several men had taken up their weapons from the entrance. Still, he couldn't exactly stop unfinished, could he?

" …to drum across the sky

In search of—"

A spear whizzed past Deor's shoulder to slip clean through the cloudy shape-shifting mass. It thudded against the floor to the other side, but the sound was quickly swallowed up by the shouts of fear and awe from the warriors. Chaos erupted and men rushed to hack with swords at the shadow in the center of the hall.

"No! I can control it!" Doer shouted, breaking from the poem. His concentration was gone and with it, the end of the song. The remaining words slipped through his mind unspoken, like water through open fingers and disappeared. Like pulling raindrops of water back from a pool, Deor knew instinctively that finding those lost words would be next to impossible. The _hael_-induced trance was completely over, and the suddenness of its departure made him stagger with exhaustion. He looked up through weary eyes with gasping breath.

Whatever it was now, the song was finished.

The maelstrom coalesced, shadows growing darker even in the well-lit hall. Voices of terror from men, women, and children echoed incoherently, until a single powerful voice rose above them all.

It screamed with the intensity of a hurricane. The shadows twisted formlessly, flashes of shining teeth and dark hair and crimson eyes visible for only moments. Like lightning made of ashy smoke, it sparked across the hall, but passed through everything it touched without slowing. It seemed to be quite distinctly of another world.

Heoden brandished his sword, and several retainers surrounded him, their weapons jerking back and forth as they tried to keep the points trained on the swift monster.

"Waelcurie!" Deor demanded imperiously, above the chaotic din. "Obey me!"

The smoke reversed in an instant and was in front of Deor before he could blink. For a moment, everything was perfectly silent and still. The shadow grew firmer and more distinct as the form of a man, but it was as if Deor couldn't focus on more than one aspect at once—when he saw the glittering eyes, the shape of the face became hazy.

"Kill it now!" Heoden shouted into the surreal lull, breaking the spell.

Deor only saw the waelcurie's smile and then something shoved him under and laughed with a pure and innocent cruelty.

Deor tried to scream. He tried to run away. He tried to look around—the waelcurie was gone!—but his body wouldn't move. He felt like he was suffocating, but he knew he was still standing, still breathing.

A great agony coursed through his veins. Something was inside him, he knew, and it was changing him from the inside out. He felt fever-hot—he was going to die!—and then a strange feeling like being pulled gently under deep water or going to sleep in the snow….

-WULF-

The world erupted into being around him, that he knew. Voices he heard and words he understood, but something wasn't right. People were all around, but indistinctly—their forms were vaguely visible, their hearts wild with fear. Everything was fiery with white-hot pain. He felt thick and clumsy, and knew this wasn't right. He searched for the missing parts, but what were they? Where were they? It was all so confusing and everything hurt. Instinct told him this wasn't right.

Then a voice. "Waelcurie!" it cried, "Obey me!"

Ah, he thought, that one is referring to me for that is what I am. It must know something about this not-rightness. He tried to see the man, but the vision kept slipping in and out of focus. The voice… so familiar. Like a dream, he thought, although he'd never had one.

The unfocused world began to crumble around him. This should not be, he thought. Why can I not touch the ground? Why do I not have my form?

And the suffocating. The pain. He was missing something vital that he didn't have.

But the man did.

He smiled with his solution and laughed. How simple to not have thought of that before!

He slipped into the body with an effortlessness that didn't surprise him and stretched his form into the man's. He realized it didn't fit very well as he flexed the fingertips and rolled his head around; he needed it to change more to his liking. More like him. He stretched his limbs longer with several cracks of shifting bones and pulled his short hair into a long gleaming pile of dark, almost purplish locks that cradled his inhumanly beautiful face. First one ashen wing curled out from his back in a rush of feathers, and then another completed his symmetrical figure. He opened his crimson eyes and fingered the long magnificent sword at his hip. Gripping the hilt, he let the flow of life well up inside him, surging with the power he possessed, and with the growing satisfaction of being himself. An intensity began to vibrate around him, clarity mounting with every moment.

He was glorious. This was right. This was what was meant to be.

But then a great burning sensation erupted in his chest as he lifted his wings. How strange, he thought passively, but then everything began to fall apart. His long hair shrank back into the human man's cut and lifeless style, and his height dropped several inches. He growled his frustration, the vibration rumbling through his chest and out through his pearly teeth. He changed them back, but it was like he couldn't fill himself full of enough strength without the body reversing, the body holding back, the body restricting, constricting, constraining, binding.

He let out a fierce howl of fury and was reminded of the men surrounding him as they took several long steps back. How _dare_ they stare without helping him! His eyes burned scarlet and several men grew blood-red auras around their beating forms.

One moved forward, enveloped in a red haze and glowing with the death hue. The waelcurie moved by instinct and drew his sword in a flash of steely metal. The long sword was light in his grasp and easy to slide through the shocked man, his clear grey-blue eyes wide.

'_Heoden!'_

"You were chosen to seek the wide halls of the afterlife," he told the man, his voice low and melodic without comfort or malice. It was simply fact.

"As are you," he said, fixing his eyes on another man, shimmering with the death-haze.

'_Stop this!'_

The first man fell to the ground, dying as blood leaked from an open wound, but the waelcurie didn't look back and had already severed the head from the human he had spoken to second. He turned to another reddened human, who jabbed at him with a long spear. He dodged effortlessly—even without his completed power, he was still more than a match for mere mortals.

He struck without stopping, his sword cutting through bone, sinew, and flesh without hesitation. All around him was the chaos and anger of the battle fray, crying and dying men with hearts full of fire. Ah, _this_ was right, he thought as another body fell, groaning out death pains, _this_ was how it should be. Even though he could not tap into his full power yet, he could still complete his duty and send those warriors' immortal souls off to that many-halled palace beyond the clouds.

'_I beg of you! You're killing them!'_

He was laughing with pleasure as the numbers in the hall dwindled—some escaping on foot, others without their bodies. Of course, he never touched those who did not have the lustrous gleam of crimson encircling their bodies and the faces of those were deliciously bewildered and twisted into various emotions. Only those that were chosen with the blood haze would be slain, their souls swept away.

And then suddenly, the hall was empty except for the dead. An eerie quiet descended, but for a faint crackling from outside growing louder. Then he noticed the curls of thick smoke drifting lazily around the ceiling. The waelcurie whirled around and faced the now-barricaded iron doors. Each corner of the high-vaulted hall and now the roof was beginning to burn. He snarled at the smoky hall, the fire-heat beginning to seep into his body.

'_Then at least death will save me from becoming such a monster….'_

He strode to the door and cleared the way with several blows of his ringing sword. Stepping out, humans fled from him in all directions. He was a god before them, and this was as it should be. A wisp of reddish haze fled behind a hillock and the waelcurie's senses tuned in to the running man like a wolf and his prey.

Something struggled feebly inside him. _'I can't let this happen!'_

Without calling up all his power—he was already wary of the consequences in this feeble body—he spread his wings and beat them several times. The force of the air against his wings felt delicious and he brought himself aloft to scan for the man that ran from his fate. With powerful strokes, he tore through the sky, his sharp eyes spotting the death-haze, and narrowing in. A euphoric thrill surged through him as he caught the chosen one. The man turned around, sword drawn, face tightened, and aware of the dark shadow only moments before the waelcurie struck. The larger, sleeker sword shattered the roughly hewn edges of the smaller one and continued, slicing the man's chest open from right shoulder to left hip. The warrior screamed in pain, falling to the ground and writhing there as he tried to cover his gaping wound with his arms. The blood soaked into the earth, staining the grasses and soil a dark red-black. How beautiful the scene looked under the cloud-studded sky with red blood glistening on pale flesh, the wind blowing across the low hills carrying the dying cries with it like a prayer. To smell the tangy scent of life force mixed with the cloying aroma of ocean-salt and burning wood—

'_Enough!' _ The feeble thing inside the waelcurie suddenly grew larger into an overwhelming force. He was being attacked from the inside! A wing shrunk into his back painfully, but as he tried to force it back out, his left leg shorted several inches. The wing returned, but then his hair lost all length and lost its glossy sheen. With a roar of anger, the waelcurie pushed against the inner force that tried to take away his form and change the body into a normal man's.

What he needed was more strength to fight off this hostile takeover. He took a deep breath and pulled in more _hael _from the living world around him, like a violent sea-spout drawing ocean water up into its body of wind.

He realized it was a mistake just after he passed the threshold for human capacity. The body shook, and pain lanced though him with exquisite sharpness. His senses distorted and blurred—did he smell or hear the color of blood?—and he was falling, falling down into something dark and soothing in its lack of stimulation. He struggled vainly against a field of darkness pricked with lights like stars, trying to orient himself. Was he already crossing the boundary? A flash of blue sky burnt his eyes—was that the burning rainbow bridge?—, but then disappeared into the field of night again. It smelled like melting iron. He tried to pick out the dead on their path, their _hael_-lights winding along towards a bright shining afterlife.

Ah, it was there, just ahead, across the poison-flowing river. He was searching for….

But then the body gasped for air and he was snapped back into awareness of the mortal realm. He looked through eyes not his own and felt the grass under someone else's back. It moved without him thinking of it, struggling clumsily onto its knees and vomiting coarsely. It stood next, knees shaking weakly, and stumbled around distractedly, looking at various objects haphazardly. A small tree on the left. A mossy boulder on the right. Smoke rising up ahead. A path up a small hill to which the footsteps moved towards.

The experience was uncanny. He was himself, yet not himself. This was not right.

The body approached the top of the hill as another figure—a mortal man—appeared on top of it. His face showed traces of dark soot, as did his hands. Another man appeared next to the first one, this one's body tense and covered with a mail tunic and bronze helm. He would have looked the picture of a warrior if his eyes weren't stained white with fear

"Deor," the first man said, his voice heavy and filled with menace..

"He…Heorrenda," the body gasped feebly, before the eyes shifted to the other man. "Calhoun…" The feet wobbled and legs struggled to continue standing. "Please kill me, my friend."

The two men looked at each other in surprise before training their eyes back onto the body inhabited by the waelcurie.

"We dare not do that," muttered the one called Calhoun.

"You are an outlaw," Heorrenda pronounced, hatred burning through his words. "The Heodenings are no more, and you have no place among those of us left. We will spread word that anyone may hunt you down without having to pay the blood price or risk vendetta." His fiery eyes narrowed as he looked down on the human body. "I hope someone does hunt you, monster."

And with that, the two men turned away and vanished behind the hill.

The monster and Deor watched them go through human eyes, one unconcerned with strange human trivialities, the other realizing his world had been crushed.

-WULF-

**Historical notes:**

Please see Chapter I to refresh yourself on "Deor" if you wish. Hopefully, my interpretation of the last stanza will make sense now. The other two poems are entirely mine, but I was keeping the style roughly Old English as follows:

a-verse (2 lifts) b-verse (2 lifts) = a line

lifts are heavily stressed syllables where both lifts in a-verse and the first in b-verse alliterate.

Usually between the a-verse and b-verse, there is a "caesura" which is a break between the words of sorts. Because this is , the site doesn't support tabs or more than one space between words, so you, my poor readers, don't get the same effect that my word document allows. Sorry.

If you noticed any odd metaphors like "arrow meadow" for battlefield, those are called _kennings_ and are very popular in many Scandinavian and Germanic literature traditions. (I have also learned recently that they are similar to Japanese 'pillow words' or _makurakotoba_ from roughly the same time period. Interesting, right?) Heck, it also works for Homeric works (late 8th century BC though, so MUCH earlier time period). Think "grey-eyed Athena" or something.

_Hafoc_ or _heafoc _is the Old English word for 'Hawk.' Basically, Deor just named him Hawk. Not very creative for a poet, actually, but he's a bit thunderstruck, I think. :P For a cool Old English site, check out: ". net / ~modean52 / index. htm" Again, take out the spaces.

The last historical note is that I'm drawing rather heavily on Norse mythology right now (I'm taking a class about Vikings, sooooooo...). A valkyrie (_waelcurie_) is a relatively well-known concept in Norse myths, but there are a couple of ideas I threw in here that people who know any Norse myths might squeal over (at least *I* did while I was writing), but if you don't know a thing, then it won't detract from the story I hope. Future chapters might go into more detail about the connections between this story and Norse mythology. In the meantime, go wiki it or something. They are extremely interesting stories in my opinion.

**Author's notes:**

A "couple" is the proper way to count hunting hounds (they are also never called dogs in my experience). I hope it is obvious that eight couple makes sixteen hounds total. I don't know how 'historical' that is, but without looking it up, I know the term has been in use for at least several hundred years.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the long chapter and will help encourage me to continue writing this. It's epic and exhaustive to research and write, but I'm having a lot of fun, so I hope you guys are too.

~anja-chan


End file.
